The Spirit Rising
by Sergio Manifesto
Summary: Magic does not exist in the world by chance. It is a resource drawn into being by the actions of a long forgotten force. Some things have the luxury of staying forgotten. Such a force does not. Power has a way of being found. For better or worse.


It is hard to say when the sun had set. Staring up at the nothing if not unsympathetic ceiling made it hard to gauge the passing of the light. For the last three days, he had committed all the time he could spend without being summoned up to complete one more banal task for his "family" to gazing endlessly into the off-white void that lingered constantly above him. This sudden fixation on peering intently into nothing would have been startling, had it not been incredibly calming.

Having been returned to his "home" nearly a month before, Harry Potter was not enjoying life. It could certainly be much worse, he could be suffering some grand abuse from his relatives. He could still be in a haze of guilt, self-loathing, and grief. It could certainly be much worse. The problem wasn't so much that things were going wrong; there just weren't any things going any way at all. He was forbidden to leave the house by his uncle and kept in residence only by order of Dumbledore himself.

With nothing but the rotation of chores mandated by his aunt to distract him, Harry had come to spend the majority of his time surrounded by his own thoughts. By this time the specter of his godfather's death had passed from him. With its passing came the full realization of the guilt of the real murderers. Understanding of the prophecy had come to him as well. It was grim, but it was his destiny at this point. It was a destiny forced not by fate, but by the actions of the very man he was now destined to kill. The very man who had marked them both physically and cosmically as adversaries to the death. Harry knew that the fulfillment of this destiny would not come without hardship but he was committed to reaching it.

With this understanding came another: in order to defeat Voldemort, Harry would need to become much more powerful. For all that Dumbledore believed in the power of love, Harry wanted to face the Dark Lord with something a bit more substantial. Truly, breakthroughs all. The problem at this point was a lack of decisions to make, problems to solve, or demons to tackle. He understood that he needed to gain more power in order to defeat Voldemort, but he had no means to even start searching for such things. Stuck inside the house with access to nothing but his school books, Harry was in severe need of resources.

In spite of all this, the ceiling managed to maintain its eternal downward stare, which Harry was giving his all to matching. As the last straggling bits of light finally vanished, that downward stare was suddenly made slightly less eternal. At that moment, Harry saw no longer the blank white expanse of his ceiling, but rather a great mass of writhing mists. The mist seemed to go on forever, unbroken. Unbroken, at least, until a great serpent burst through into sight. Just as he saw this terror, the ceiling was once again returning his gaze.

His heart pounding, his lungs crying desperately for less exertion, Harry Potter found himself in a state of extreme distress. When he had managed to calm himself, he realized that the panic had brought with it resolve. He would not allow himself to be kept here when there were greater powers and mysteries at work in the world. Reaching for a quill and some parchment, he wrote a short note and sent Hedwig off to deliver it. Gathering from his trunk all that would be useful and picking up his wand from his bedside table, Harry prepared to leave. Waiting patiently for some signal, he eventually saw what he was looking for. Hedwig had returned with nothing, and that was all he needed. Hearing a sudden familiar note ring out only confirmed that his message was received. With just a burst of flame and a rush of air, the house on Privet Drive found itself lacking an occupant.

* * *

Listening can be quite useful. While speaking gives the power to move the hearts of men; listening gives the power to know what exists within those hearts. This was something she knew all too well. Listening happened to be one of her great skills, relegated as she was to the fringes of any conversation. On this night, however, no secrets drifted to be overheard. This came as no surprise to the young woman as she lay in an empty field. Very rarely does such a place bear witness to the divulging of great secrets. No, on this night she listened only for the shifting of the winds and the quiet motions of the world around her.

Closing her eyes to the light of the moon, she began to listen inward, seeking something almost ineffable. For weeks now, she had begun to feel a presence within her. It felt pure, almost soothing, but regardless, it was something from without, suddenly intruding within. She had come to this remote field for the guarantee of solitude and silence, but now she felt unsettled searching so deeply inside of herself as she was. Struggling to calm her mind and seek past her own thoughts, she began to breathe slowly and deeply. After nearly an hour of meditating and seeking within herself, she finally came upon the presence within her. Finally she found what had been lurking deep inside and found its purity to be an illusion. Seeing this, the presence saw her. The breathing stopped. The field was now truly empty.


End file.
